


This One's For You

by Thistlerose



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, MWPP Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-23
Updated: 2014-06-23
Packaged: 2018-02-05 22:54:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1835221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thistlerose/pseuds/Thistlerose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written in 2005.  Determined to impress Remus, Sirius makes an impulse purchase.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This One's For You

**Author's Note:**

> With apologies to Lennon/McCartney, whose song Sirius butchers.

Sirius spies the guitar in the pawnshop window as he’s heading toward the pub. It's late-November, and cold and drizzly, but he stops and looks at it, and pretty soon he’s seeing more than the guitar. 

He’s seeing himself sitting cross-legged on the Potters’ floor, playing lullabies for their drooling, chuckling baby (who hasn’t been born yet, but Sirius wants it to be a boy, so that’s what he pictures). He sees himself in a smoky café, wearing low-slung cords and a tight black turtleneck (not his style, but it goes with the setting) impressing the disgruntled youth of the wizarding world with his lefty views and irresistible melancholy. He sees Remus turning on the wireless, and raising his eyebrows, and turning to Sirius to ask incredulously, “Is that really _you_ , Padfoot?”

“Yep,” Sirius will say casually.

“You wrote me a song. With such complicated cadences and internal rhythms. And you sold it, and now it’s being played for all the wizarding world to hear.”

And humbly, Sirius will reply, “Yep.”

Then they’ll do what they usually do when Sirius lays a portion of the world at Remus’ feet – which he does manage to do, on occasion.

_All right,_ thinks Sirius, blinking, and seeing just the guitar once more. But he can’t very well take the guitar to the pub with him. James will ask questions, and Sirius has a sneaking suspicion that his fantasies won’t hold up under James’ scrutiny. James has been taking everything much too seriously, ever since Lily got sprogged up. Better to surprise him.

So Sirius spends the next few hours at the pub, tossing back beers with James, and assuring him that yes, he’s the worst imminent father that ever there was, fully ten times more annoyingly euphoric than Lovegood, Diggory, or Weasley ever got.

“Least you’re honest,” James slurs as his fingers, greasy from the chips they’ve been eating, refuse to grip his pint glass.

“Well,” says Sirius, “if your best mate can’t tell you when you’re being an annoying twat, who can?”

“My wife,” says James morosely. Then his mouth flops into an abashed grin, and splutter of laughter escapes. In a moment he and Sirius are sagging across the table, laughing like fools into each other’s faces because they’re both so young and so smitten. That two such noble Marauders should sink to such depths seems the best prank the universe has ever played on them.

Far too many Sickles, and two very strong doses of Ortrude’s Sobering Up Potion later, James is on his way home to Lily, and Sirius is back on the pavement in front of the pawnshop.

The guitar is still there, honey-brown in the faltering evening light, and to Sirius this is a sign that all his dreams of being the next Bob Dylan will come to pass. He makes his purchase, and once the guitar is in his arms, once he can smell the leather of the case and the finish of the wood, then he knows that he's doing the right thing and that it won't matter a whit that he can't sing and hasn't had a music lesson since he was ten. 

So he’s taken aback when Remus greets his appearance at the flat with considerably less enthusiasm than he’d anticipated.

“What,” Remus says warily, “is that?”

“This,” says Sirius, placing the guitar gently on the kitchen table, and opening the case, “is exactly what it looks like. Why are you pulling that face?”

Remus looks at him, his arms crossed over his chest, the corners of his mouth turned downward, his brow visibly furrowed behind his light-brown fringe. “I’m baffled by the presence of a guitar on our kitchen table.”

“I got it at that pawnshop near the Magical Menagerie. Aces, isn’t it?”

“How much did it cost?”

Bugger. He’s been hoping Remus wouldn’t ask that. “What does it matter?” Sirius says dismissively. 

“I haven’t found another job yet,” Remus reminds him. His voice is slightly strained; he’s been taking this most recent sacking harder than he took the last three.

Sirius shrugs. “That’s got nothing to do with it. I’ve got a job. I can afford it. It wasn’t _too_ dear, anyway.”

“Neither was that set of antique books you bought last month.”

“No, I told you, I haggled the bloke down from – ”

“I know,” Remus says, “I believed you, you’re wonderfully persuasive.” The way he says it, it doesn’t sound like a virtue. “But then there was that cashmere scarf from Harrod’s.”

“It was just one scarf,” Sirius says, beginning to feel defensive and underappreciated. There’s a smack down looming in his future.

“And those Clash tickets…”

“One ticket,” Sirius points out. “You paid for the other one.”

“Yes, but the thing is – all those relatively small things _add up._ ”

“I can afford it,” Sirius insists. This is true; since his uncle willed him all that gold – to make up for the fact that his parents had recently cut him off without a Knut – he’s paid attention to what he earns and spends, taking care that the latter does not exceed the former each week.

“But _I_ can’t,” Remus says. He unfolds his thin arms and curls his fingers around the back of a chair. 

“I’m not asking you to.” Now Sirius is irritated. He might have expected some reserve from Remus – ought to have, really, since Remus approaches most of his bursts of brilliance with reserve. But _this_ is wholly unwarranted. 

“Furthermore,” he says, snapping shut the guitar’s case, and clutching it to his chest, “I don’t want you to. This is my project. I paid for it. It’s mine. Quit worrying. We’re not going to starve.”

“Probably not,” says Remus, following as he stalks into the bedroom and lays the guitar gently on the bed. “But we’re going to have to stop going out so often.”

“We hardly go out as it is,” Sirius mutters. 

“Yes we do,” says Remus, “only not in the sense you mean.” Wrapping his arms around one of the bedposts, he elaborates as Sirius glances at him curiously. “I meant going to the pub, or for coffee, or somewhere. You’re thinking about ‘going out’ in the James-and-Lily sense. Or the Peter-and-Natalie sense. Or the Frank-and—” 

“The straight sense,” Sirius cuts in. 

“The romantic sense,” says Remus. “And the straight sense, I suppose.” 

“We’re not straight, and we’re not romantic.” Not in public, anyway, and not really in private, either. Neither is a prissy queen, whatever Prongs may say. They talk like men, they dress like men, and they fuck like men. Sirius is very proud of this. He and Remus, he has decided, belong to an elite order of poofs, alongside such notables as Dai Llewelyn of the Caerphilly Catapults and that Muggle soldier - Alexander the something-or-other. There is no nancing about in pink frocks and lace. There is no attending of the ballet. There are no soppy endearments, other than the perfectly respectable Padfoot and Moony. 

Peter may not understand, and James may poke fun, and even Remus may seem a bit skeptical at times, but Sirius knows that he is right.

Right or not, judging by the way Remus is looking at him now, Sirius suspects that he’s missing the point. “All right,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed and crossing his arms over his chest. “So?”

“So…” Remus lets go of the bedpost briefly, for a shrug. “Never mind. I don’t remember what I was going to say, anyway.”

This is an obvious lie, but it tells Sirius that Remus has decided he’d better not say what he intended to say. Which is just as well. Sirius hates arguing about money, and he hates that Remus worries about it so much. No smack-down, then, only frowning, and picking at the frayed ends of his jumper sleeves. They can’t have this. Not on the first evening of Sirius’ career as a musical prodigy, at least. Sirius grabs Remus by the wrist and pulls him across his lap.

“What’re you—?”

“Shut up,” Sirius says, falling back against the bed with Remus on top of him. Remus seems light, the way he always seems in the days just following the full moon, as though all the stony and leaden parts of him have been scorched away. The grey hairs at Remus’ temples are like tendrils of smoke. Sirius twines a few strands around his index finger, loving and hating them simultaneously.

“What are you doing?” Remus asks again, looking up at Sirius with wide dark eyes.

What Sirius is doing will become obvious soon enough. He gathers Remus against him, supporting his neck in the crook of his elbow. He slips his free hand under Remus’ scratchy woolly jumper, and splays his fingers over his flat belly. 

“Nice, isn’t this?” Sirius asks.

“Yes,” admits Remus, still looking faintly bewildered. “But – ”

But the rest of his objection goes unuttered as Sirius curls his fingers and drags them gently across Remus’ belly. He feels the muscles jump and tighten, feels Remus’ sharp inhalation against his wrist.

“This is a preview,” Sirius explains, in case Remus still hasn’t cottoned on. He strokes him again, a bit lower this time, closer to his navel and the short, coarse hairs that grow below it. Sirius strums him a third time, and Remus’ finally begins to relax.

“This _is_ nice,” he says. “But why did you buy the guitar when you can play me just as easily?”

Sirius ignores the question. Still cradling Remus’ head, and brushing his belly with his fingertips, he begins to sing – croak, rather – the song he thought up on the way from the pub to the pawnshop.

_”My love don’t bring me presents  
I know that he’s no peasant – “_

“S’not funny,” admonishes Remus.

“I know,” Sirius assures him. “The funny bit’s coming up.” And he jumps straight into it, because he’s realized a bit belatedly that any mention of presents and finances isn’t going to help his cause.

_”He’s a werewolf who understands  
He’s a werewolf who loves his man.”_

Remus laughs. To Sirius it’s the best, most delicious sound in the world. It sends sparks rushing through him; they strike things inside his body that he never knew could make music before he fell into this love.

“What’s so funny?”

“Lily will kill you when she hears that. She’ll call it sacrilege.”

“Maybe Lily won’t get to hear it.”

Remus’ eyebrows twitch. “Why am I the only one singled out for torture?”

“Because I _love_ you, you twat.”

“I’m honored,” says Remus dryly.

“So, we’re all right, then? About the guitar? Honestly, Moony, I wouldn’t have bought it if I couldn’t afford it. And just wait. A bit of practice, and it’ll be brilliant.”

“Yes,” Remus says, amusement rippling in his tone, “you’ll be all set to stand on a street corner and play for Knuts.”

“Oh, _you_.” 

Remus really _shouldn’t_ scoff when Sirius has him in this vulnerable position. He appears to realize this a moment too late; Sirius is already in mid-pounce, and in moments has him pinned against the duvet, his jumper pushed up over his chest. 

“I _don’t_ approve,” Remus says. The words wheeze out of him, like they’d rather be something else.

Sirius lifts his head. “No? You prefer the other one?” He shifts slightly, and sucks Remus’ other nipple between his lips, leaving his first target taut and slick with saliva.

“No,” stammers Remus, and Sirius can feel his heart beginning to tremble beneath his throat. “That’s not what I—” But the words he’d rather be saying shove the other, disapproving ones aside, and then it’s just “ _Please_ ”, and “ _yes_ ”, and then no words at all, just groans and whimpers when Sirius has his pants down and is licking him mercilessly.

***

The next day Sirius gets a book about guitars, and some sheet music. He lies on his belly by the fireplace in the living room, and flips through his new treasures while Remus sprawls on the battered sofa, a quilt pulled up to his chest. He's chewing on the tip of his quill and staring disconsolately at his CV.

“You know,” Sirius begins slowly, “I may know a bloke who—”

“No,” says Remus.

“I could show him your CV, at least. Wouldn’t hurt. He owes me a favor, anyway.”

Sirius knows that this is the wrong thing to say, but he has always preferred saying something – even if it’s the wrong thing – to saying nothing.

"Will he care that I'm a werewolf?" 

Sirius considers. "I don't know," he says at length. "Maybe. But it doesn't matter. I told you. He owes me."

"Sounds a bit dodgy."

Sirius closes his book and pushes it a few feet away from him. Propping himself up on his elbows, he turns to Remus and frowns at him. "Why won't you let me help you?"

The brown eyes widen slightly. "I let you help me."

"Let me show him your CV. Maybe I won't even have to remind that he owes me. I can set up an interview for you. At least _meet_ the bloke."

"I can't," Remus says. "Not this week, anyway. I've got to go somewhere tomorrow. Dumbledore needs me—" He bites his lip, and looks slightly pained. "It's Order stuff. There's someplace that he wants me to go. He talked to me yesterday, while you were out."

His words scurry over Sirius' back and shoulders on barbed little legs. "Why didn't you tell me yesterday?"

"I got distracted. The guitar and all. Anyway, I'm telling you now," mutters Remus. "I can't tell you where I'm going. Until I get back, I mean. Sorry. It'll only be a few days. Not even a week."

He doesn't sound very sorry. In fact, there's the faintest note of relief in his tone. Either he really doesn't want the interview or he really wants some time away from Sirius and their cramped little flat. Or perhaps it's a bit of both. Remus is still not pleased with the guitar, Sirius knows. 

"You love me, don't you?" Sirius says in a teasing manner.

"Of course," is the only way Remus can really answer the question. His eyes go a bit wider as he says it, like he's startled.

Sirius crawls over to the sofa on his elbows and knees, catches Remus' wrist, and brings it to his lips. There's a bruise on the palm, and a scab that runs perpendicular to the veins. Sirius touches the bruise with the tip of his tongue, then drags his tongue slowly over the scab. It tastes coppery and unpleasant, but it's healing, and the skin around it is smooth and soft and tastes faintly of ink and wool and lemon soap and warm toast. 

A sigh vibrates all through Remus; Sirius feels it with his lips and fingers. 

"S'nice?" he asks, as his tongue grazes Remus' palm. 

"Mmm," buzzes Remus.

He doesn't want to ask, but suddenly the words are leaving his mouth: "How long will you be gone this time?"

"Don't know," is the reluctant reply. "Couple of days. Not going _too_ far. Just. Dumbledore wants—"

Sirius lifts his gaze. Remus is lying back against the sofa cushions, his face turned toward Sirius and toward the fire. Warm light flickers over his forehead, down the slope of his nose, to the shallow curve of his lips. The rest of Remus is awash in dirty grey light from the window. 

He looks old and young simultaneously. Big, tired brown eyes, drooping smile, graying hair (not _too_ grey yet, just a few strands, no reason for alarm), scarred, cold skin (becoming warmer as Sirius pushes his sleeve up and licks his way toward the tender crook of his elbow). In a moment Sirius is on his knees, and Remus has pushed his quill and CV aside, and is stroking Sirius' hair, tucking errant strands behind his ears and scratching just where Sirius likes it.

It's Sirius' turn to "Mmm," and then his cheek is against Remus' chest, and Remus' arm is slung around his shoulders, and Sirius is thinking, _Don't leave. I hate it when you leave. We always argue, at least a little, right before you go, and while you're gone I start to wonder, and I hate wondering about you. I like KNOWING, and when you're gone it's like I don't know anything, like I've NEVER known anything._

Remus' fingers are gentle and slow and not particularly soothing. 

"I'll write you a song while you're gone," Sirius promises impulsively.

"Is that a threat?" asks Remus mildly.

"Yes," mumbles Sirius. _I want to make something for you. Something just for you. Could you work up a little enthusiasm?_

But no, Remus only laughs lightly, and it jangles in Sirius' ears like broken strings.

***

Remus is gone by the time Sirius returns from work the next evening. There's a note on the kitchen table, weighted down by a jar of Nutella, telling Sirius not to worry, and that Remus will be back in just a few days. That's it. No _I love you, Padfoot_. No inked paw print. Not that Sirius expected it. Remus doesn't leave his secrets for people to stumble across; He believes in hiding and hoarding, and making others burrow and seek.

Sirius drapes his cloak over the back of a chair, gets a cold beer and a plateful of McVitie's, and goes into the bedroom. He considers the guitar, which he left propped against the baseboard this morning, and decides that he's not dressed for the part of the musical prodigy. 

So he changes from his work clothes into a pair of battered jeans, threadbare at the knees and crotch, a spectacularly purple long-sleeved t-shirt that he got at the Fringe Festival last August, a pair of knobby woolen socks, and one of Remus' tartan scarves. It's cold in the flat, and the scarf holds Remus' scent.

It occurs to Sirius, as he climbs onto the bed and reaches for the guitar, that James, Lily, and Peter would laugh their arses off if they knew what he was about to attempt. 

_Elite order of poofs my arse,_ Prongs would snort. _He's writing a luuurve song._

_Shut up,_ Sirius thinks, and mentally goes over his roster.

Alexander. Dai Llewelyn. That cool Auror he met at the Ministry last month. Oscar Wilde. Socrates, and all those other Greeks and Romans. Rimbaud. Ginsberg. That Muggle code cracker Remus thinks is so keen. Professor Kettleburn, back in Hogwarts. Daedalus Dingle, who's a bit of a nancy, but who's still strong enough to join the fight against Voldemort. Nigel over in Soho, who's helped him find some of the more obscure parts he's needed for his bike. 

Poofs all, and not a pussy among them, literally or figuratively. 

More confident now, Sirius takes the guitar from its case and draws it across his folded legs. 

_He's pining for Moooony,_ Peter croons in his head.

"Shut up," Sirius growls. Being an Elite Poof himself, Moony is eminently worthy of pining. And of love songs. 

Sirius touches the strings, trying to do it the way his book said to do it.

_JANG_ , go the strings as Sirius' fingers snag in them.

"Fuck!" shouts Sirius, recoiling. Then, holding his smarting fingers against his chest, "Ow," he mutters. "Damn."

***

Remus returns five nights later. Sirius, who has been dreaming about running in circles and chasing something he can never quite catch up with, is awakened by the _crack!_ of his Apparation. He wriggles out of his pajamas and waits.

In a moment the bedroom door opens and he hears Remus' soft footfalls. "You're awake under there, aren't you?" Remus says presently. "And naked."

There's something a bit off about his voice, but Sirius elects not to worry about it. "As should you be," he replies languorously. 

He's only expecting a cuddle and maybe some good rubbing, but Remus tugs back the duvet, puts his hands on Sirius' waist, and starts to roll him over.

"Oh," says Sirius inanely.

"Please," Remus whispers, his warm dry lips tickling Sirius' neck. "I – " He's on top of Sirius now, squeezing his wrists and nudging his legs apart with his knee. "I missed you." 

"Clearly," says Sirius as Remus' stiffening cock presses against him. His own blood is beginning to surge, and his lips part to release a groan. This is a bit unusual – Sirius is usually the first to pounce at a homecoming – but not at all unwelcome. Not after five days of celibacy.

"Guitars are vicious," he announces, not sure why Remus needs this bit of information at this moment. "It's a little known fact I've discovered. Should see my fingers. All guitar-bitten."

"I bite too," Remus murmurs, and nips Sirius' shoulder. 

That too is unusual, Sirius thinks as he gasps in mingled pain and pleasure. There's no danger in it, but Remus has never been one for biting and marking during sex. That little detail seems to have been forgotten because he's clearly not content with one nip. His mouth latches onto Sirius' shoulder, and then he's gnawing and raking with his teeth, sucking and licking, and his fingers are roving over Sirius' chest and belly, scratching his nipples and the bumps of his ribs, on their way to his erection.

It's exciting and it pulls Sirius back into his dream of chasing. Something inside him throws its head back and howls, and then he is the one howling, and he's twisting in Remus' arms. 

He's on his back and Remus is on top of him. Nails dig into heated flesh. Teeth click as they kiss. His shoulders, slick with sweat and with Remus' saliva, slide against the sheets. It's a strange tussle because he is struggling to _be_ overcome, and when he is – 

When he's on his elbows and knees again, and Remus is inside him, and it's rough, and it's good, and – 

" _I love you,_ " moans Remus –

And there's still something a bit off about his tone –

But the wrong notes and the right words harmonize in Sirius.

***

In the morning Sirius aches.

"I'm sorry," says Remus as Sirius blinks and lifts a hand to wipe the crust from his eyelashes.

"I'm not." His shoulder and neck hurt and he's sore. But he's not sorry.

Remus looks unconvinced. He's sitting a few feet away, with his legs tucked up to his chest, and his arms wrapped tightly around them. He's got his pajamas on, but he looks cold. His skin is tinted grey in the morning light, and there are shadows under his eyes. 

"I'm not sorry," Sirius says again, pushing himself up against the pillows, and stifling a wince. 

"I didn't mean to hurt you," Remus says in a slightly punctured tone. "I don't know what I was trying to do."

"Seemed like you were trying to shag me," says Sirius dryly. He's still naked and it's cold in the flat. He wishes Remus would stop fretting and get under the duvet with him. 

"I missed you," Remus says. "I shouldn't've bitten you."

Sirius shrugs. "Battle scars. It's all right."

"It's not all right," insists Remus. "Animals bite."

"People are animals," says Sirius impatiently. "So are guitars. Look at this." He shows Remus his blistered fingertips. "Told you they're vicious and they bite." He's hoping this will distract Remus, but Remus only looks more aggrieved.

"You've been practicing."

"I have," says Sirius, a bit put out by Remus' incredulous tone. "Didn't you think I would?"

Remus shrugs. 

"Such little faith. I've learned four chords. Want to hear?"

"What about your fingers?"

"I'm afraid you're just going to have to kiss them afterward." Sirius gets the guitar and climbs back into bed. He arranges his fingers on the fret-board. "This is called fretting," he explains, and lifts his head to grin at Remus. "We are both fretting, you and I."

Remus' lips twitch.

"This is G5," says Sirius, and attempts to play it.

It takes several attempts.

" _That_ was G5," he announces finally, triumphant, and beams at Remus, who seems to be loosening his grip on himself. "And this is – well, it's _going_ to be – A major." 

While he rearranges his fingers Sirius asks, "Where did you go?"

"I can't tell you where," Remus says. He drops his chin onto his knees. 

"Somewhere dangerous?" Sirius' fingers snag in the strings. "Bloody hell."

"Not for me, no."

Sirius glances up at him again, ignoring his stinging fingertips. "Werewolves?" he guesses. "Dumbledore sent you to talk to werewolves? Try to get them on our side?"

"I don't want to talk about it," mutters Remus, looking away.

Sirius frowns at the guitar strings again. "Bad, was it?"

Silence from Remus.

Sirius flubs another chord, and sighs. "Don't quite trust our side, do they?"

"Can you blame them?" Remus says quietly. "They didn't even trust _me_. Not one of them. I talked and I talked because I promised Dumbledore I'd try. But what the hell did I have to offer them? They took me for a traitor. A sellout. You should see the way they live. Padfoot, some of them live like - _animals._ "

There's pain in his voice. Real pain, bubbling just below the calm surface. 

_Animals bite_ , Remus said a few minutes ago.

_Oh, Moony._

"So, what did they say about _me_?"

"You don't want to know. I mean - _I_ don't want you to know."

Sirius can imagine, though. "Bastards."

"No," Remus says. 

 

"Bastards," Sirius says again, more loudly, gripping the fret-board until the strings did into his fingers. "Not one of them knows a damn thing about us. Not one of them knows, for instance, that I've written you a song."

At this, Remus looks up. "You wrote me a song? You can't even play four chords."

"I'm rather astonished by your lack of faith in me this morning," says Sirius airily. "Want to hear it?"

"Yes," Remus says, and there's a challenging note in his tone.

_So,_ thinks Sirius, _he suspects this is a load of bollocks. That's my astute Moony. However..._ He finds A major again and plays it.

"Did you write a tune?" asks Remus. "Or just words?"

"I only know four chords," Sirius reminds him. "Hush. There's another one around here somewhere..." He finds C, plays it, then decides he's stalled enough. There _have_ been a few words of love – rhyming ones – flitting through his head while Remus was gone. Nothing he ever imagined he'd say aloud, but –

But Remus needs a love song now, and Sirius is armed with a guitar.

He plays C again – a nice chord, no sense in taking the time to find another – and begins to sing:

__

"The sun shines twenty times as bright  
when you are standing near—"

He's not at all surprised by Remus' snort.

__

"A task is never quite so bad  
When I'm with you, my dear—"

He's beginning to feel warm despite the cold morning air. His palms are sweating; his fingers slip on the fret-board and he nearly drops the guitar. Recovering, he croaks—

__

"A joke is twice as funny  
if it's one you've laughed at, too—"

Did Remus just laugh? Sirius can't look at him; he'll lose the chord if he takes his gaze off the strings.

__

"So what I'm trying to say here  
is I rather fancy you."

The mattress bounces and Remus moves closer to him. Sirius concentrates on his song.

__

"I have no need for drink or drugs;  
you get me twice as high  
I cannot knit or cook – or sing  
But you make me want to try..."

He trails off because Remus is beside him, leaning close. His fringe tickles Sirius' bruised shoulder, and then his lips are there, warm and dry, and his tongue. No teeth this time. There's no need to mark; Sirius is already claimed and they both know it.

Sirius lowers the guitar. "Like that, do you?"

"I love you," from Remus, low and husky, not at all the way he said it last night. He takes the guitar by its neck, lifts it away from Sirius, and lowers it carefully to the floor. 

Then he's _on_ Sirius, kissing his shoulders, his neck, and his face, and Sirius' fingers are fumbling with his pajamas. Drawstrings are easier than guitar strings. 

So maybe he isn't destined to be the wizarding world's Dylan. There's only one person he needs to impress, after all, and he's managed to do that without any musical talent whatsoever. 

Their noses are pushed together and Remus' palms are flat against Sirius' hips. 

"I love you," Remus whispers again. Sirius vibrates with the words, as though his entire soul is one guitar string and Remus is strumming him expertly. 

05/08/05


End file.
